Darrow came forward, his eyes narrowed. “What have you been up to?”
Ethan was sure he intended to check his manacles, chains, and gag to make sure they were still secure. Doing so, he was certain to see the blood on Ethan’s hand, and all would be lost.
But Mackintosh, after glaring at him for a few seconds, drew a knife from his belt and started toward Ethan, murder in his eyes.
Darrow blocked his path. “No, Ebenezer! That’s the last thing you want to do. Believe me. I assure you, you’ll have your vengeance soon enough.”
Mackintosh still glowered at Ethan. For an instant, Ethan thought that he might try to push his way past Darrow. But he nodded and reluctantly put away his knife.
“That’s a good lad,” Darrow said. He glanced back at Ethan, flashing a quick, amused smile, as if he and Ethan had shared some great jest. For the moment, he seemed to have forgotten that he wanted to check Ethan’s shackles.
“Why d’ you have him chained up like tha’?” the cordwainer asked. “You’d think he was strong as a bear, with all that iron on him. An’ why wrap his manacles?”
Darrow eyed Mackintosh for a moment. The blood still flowed from Ethan’s finger, and he took this opportunity to wipe it on the tree bark behind him, watching Darrow the whole time.
“That’s a fine question,” the lawyer said, facing Ethan again. “Can you think of a reason not to tell him?”
“Tell me wha’?” Mackintosh asked.
“That he’s a conjurer.”
The cordwainer’s brow furrowed. “A wha’?”
“What you and I would call a witch. He can cast spells.”
Mackintosh’s frown deepened. “You’re mad.”
“No, I’m not. That’s the reason I have him chained this way. We can’t let him have access to any blood. Blood for a conjurer is like whiskey for a drunk: He should be denied it at all costs.” He crossed to Ethan and looked him over carefully. “Now what were you up to before?”
Knowing that any motion on his part would draw Darrow’s attention, Ethan tried to hide his wounded hand, but in a way that would make the man think he was concealing the raw spot on his wrist.
Darrow grabbed his forearm, and lifted Ethan’s hand so that the firelight could reach it. Ethan kept his hand fisted, hiding the bloody finger, and just as he had hoped, Darrow immediately noticed the exposed metal on the manacle.
“Ethan,” he said in a stern voice. “You shouldn’t have done that.” He ran a finger over the darkening bruise on Ethan’s wrist. “Didn’t amount to much, did it?”
Ethan shook his head.
“Wha’ is it he’s done?”
Darrow glanced back at Mackintosh. “He tried to cut his wrist on the metal cuff.” He smoothed out the cloth, making certain that all of the metal was covered once more. “We’re fortunate that he didn’t succeed. I promise you he wouldn’t have hesitated to kill us both with his witchery.” As he spoke, he checked the other manacles. Apparently satisfied that Ethan was still powerless to escape, he returned to the cordwainer’s side.
“So you wan’ me t’ believe tha’ he’s a witch-a real witch, who can make spells an’ tha’ sort o’ thing?”
“That’s right. More, I think it’s possible that he killed Jennifer Berson himself, and has been trying to blame you for the murder, all at the behest of Samuel Adams, James Otis, and the Loyal Nine.”
“But why?”
“Because you’re a dangerous man, Ebenezer. Adams and the others think of themselves as leaders, but you really are one. They want to control you, and failing that, they’ll eliminate you and control the men you lead.”
Ethan shook his head, making the chain at his neck ring.
“I think he’s tryin’ t’ say tha’ you’re wrong.”
Darrow laughed convincingly. “Of course he is. Would you expect him to do anything else?”
“He’hsh lhying!” Ethan said through the gag.
“Wha’ was tha’?” Mackintosh asked.
Darrow turned toward Ethan, a sly look on his handsome face. “I believe he said that I’m lying.”
“Take out his gag. I want t’ hear wha’ he has t’ say.”
“I can’t do that, Ebenezer. Without the gag in his mouth he can bite down on his tongue, make himself bleed, and kill us both.”
“Barrowh’s a wihs fhoo!” Ethan said, staring hard at Mackintosh, hoping that he would hear “Darrow’s a witch, too,” in the sound he had made.
Rage flashed in Darrow’s eyes. Clearly he had understood.
“What’d he say tha’ time?”
Darrow shook his head. “I’m not sure. And it doesn’t matter.”
Mackintosh watched Ethan, clearly troubled by all that he had heard. “Well, so he’s a witch. Wha’ are we going t’ do with him?”
“He’s not just a witch. He’s a killer. There’s only one thing we can do to him. He tried to blame you for the Berson killing; I thought you would want to be here to see him die. In a way, you could say that I’m killing him for you.”
Ethan felt sure that Darrow was but moments away from casting the killing spell. He had to do something, and he knew better than to think that any blood spell he cast right now would work. It might force Darrow to reveal that he was a conjurer, but whatever spell the lawyer cast on Mackintosh using Ethan’s life would erase that memory. He needed more time.
Imago ex igne evocata. Illusion, conjured from fire.
He felt the power of the spell pulse in the tree against his back and under his feet. The old ghost appeared next to him, his bright eyes fixed on Darrow, who glowered back at both of them. Mackintosh gave no indication that he had noticed anything, at least at first.
Ethan saw the image of Stephen Greenleaf step into the firelight. He wore the same dark suit he had been wearing the last time Ethan saw him, and he looked as substantial as any illusion Ethan had ever conjured. But that wouldn’t be enough. Closing his eyes, he drew on the fire a second time, feeling the ground vibrate once more.
“He’s lying to you, Mackintosh,” the illusion said in a thin, wraithlike voice.
The cordwainer gaped and even took a step back from the image. “Tha’s Greenleaf!”
“No, it’s not. Not really, anyway. It’s merely an illusion conjured by Kaille.”
“Darrow is a conjurer, too,” Ethan made the sheriff say, amazed that he had succeeded in getting his illusion to speak. “He killed Jenni-”
Pain exploded in his shoulder. Ethan cried out, his knees buckling. Opening his eyes, Ethan saw that Darrow hadn’t moved, although his golden ghost had returned. He had shattered the bones in Ethan’s shoulder with a spell, probably drawing on a few of the leaves fluttering above them.
Darrow glared at him, the threat of more pain in his eyes.
“Wha’ happened t’ him?” Mackintosh asked, confusion and fear chasing each other across his angular features.
“I have no idea,” Darrow said.
The image of Greenleaf had wavered, like a flame sputtering in a sudden wind. But Ethan managed somehow to maintain the illusion through his pain, and now he drew on the flames again.
“Darrow did that to me,” he made the sheriff say. “He used witchery to-”
Molten steel coursed through his veins, silencing his illusion, stealing his breath, numbing his senses. He writhed against the tree, his chains thrashing, his head bucking against the bark.
At the same time, Darrow shouted, “Stop it!”
That proved to be a mistake.
Ethan couldn’t hold the image of Greenleaf anymore. But the illusion spell had served its purpose.
Mackintosh was gaping at Darrow now, terror on his face. “You’re doin’ somethin’ t’ him! You’re hurtin’ him! Bu’ you haven’ touched him! He’s right, isn’ he? You’re a witch, too! Th’ two o’ you are usin’ witchcraft on each other!”
Darrow’s face contorted with rage, but only for an instant. With a visible effort he calmed himself. He even forced a smile. “Enough,” he said, his voice level.
As abruptly as it had begun, the torment ceased. Ethan sagged against the tree; had it not been for the chains, he would have crumpled to the ground, although hanging from them made the pain in his shattered shoulder unbearable.
He wanted to curl up into a ball and sleep. A part of him wanted to relent and die. Mostly though, he wanted to kill Peter Darrow and end this nightmare. With an effort, he got his feet under him and stood once more. Mackintosh was afraid of Darrow now; the conjurer couldn’t allow this to go on much longer. He needed to kill Ethan quickly.
Ethan had only seconds in which to act. And he still had no idea how to defeat the man.
That is, until Darrow himself gave Ethan an idea. For a second time, the conjurer suddenly stared off into the night. This time his brow furrowed, and when he faced Ethan and Mackintosh once more his jaw was set, his expression resolute. He had seen something through Anna’s eyes. Again.
Why couldn’t Ethan do something similar?
He closed his eyes and, drawing on the flames once more, summoned another illusion-the first form that came to mind. This one, though, didn’t form in the circle of firelight. Instead, he sent it out in the same direction Darrow had gazed a moment before. As before, he drew on the flame. Videre per mea imagine ex igne evocatum. Sight, through my illusion, conjured from fire. He felt the power. So did Darrow.
“What are you doing, Kaille?” the conjurer asked, sounding alarmed.
Ethan ignored him. Suddenly he was on a road, or it felt like he was. He could see three people approaching, walking quickly.
“Wha’ d’ you mean, wha’s he doin’?” Mackintosh’s voice. “He’s not doin’ anythin’.”
Ethan’s illusion approached the men and Ethan saw with elation that he knew them. Mr. Pell, whom Ethan had sent to keep watch on Darrow; Samuel Adams; and James Otis. Ethan had his illusion stop in front of Pell, who regarded the figure with obvious suspicion.
“Who are-?”
“I haven’t much time,” Ethan made the illusion say.
“Stop it, Kaille!” Darrow warned.
“Ethan Kaille is by that fire, with Ebenezer Mackintosh. They’re in danger; they need your help. Ethan said to tell you that if you really want to be a thieftaker, this is the time to start.”
Pell had been eyeing the illusion doubtfully, but his eyes widened at this last remark. “She’s telling the truth!” he told the others.
“Darrow is a conjurer,” the illusion said. “You’ll need hel-”
“I said stop it!”
The spell with which Darrow fractured Ethan’s knee hurt even more than the one that had shattered his shoulder. He was wrenched off the road and back to the tree and his chains. He collapsed again as far as the shackles would allow, gasping at the agony in his leg and his shoulder. He assumed that his illusion had vanished, and he wondered what Pell, Adams, and Otis would make of what they had seen and heard.
He opened his eyes and found Darrow standing directly in front of him. Rage smoldered in his dark eyes, and Ethan could see that it was all he could do to keep himself from smashing every bone in Ethan’s body.
Despite the throbbing pain in his knee and shoulder, despite the gag in his mouth, he flashed a quick smile Darrow’s way, which only enraged the man more.
“Tell me wha’ he’s doin’!” Mackintosh demanded, still panicked and far beyond his depth. “He’s a speller, you say. An’ he says you are, too. Fine then. Wha’s he doin’?”
“An illusion spell, like before,” Darrow told the cordwainer. “He’s communicating with his friends, trying to bring help.”
“Help?” Mackintosh said, his eyes like those of a scared child. “You mean more witches?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Darrow said. “He’ll be dead before they get here.”
Uncle Reg had been standing utterly still, watching all of this unfold. Now, though, he turned to Ethan, avid, a plea in his eyes. Ethan had never seen the old ghost so eager for a spell.
But what to cast? Blood still oozed slowly from the finger he had ripped open; the blood on his hand was growing sticky as it dried. He would have only one chance at a blood spell. His best hope lay in surprising Darrow, and he could only do that by attempting something he had never done before.
Imago ex igne evocata. Illusion, conjured from fire.
Power pulsed and Darrow pulled the blade from his belt.
But then he saw the figure Ethan had conjured. The same figure Ethan had sent to speak with Pell, Adams, and Otis.
Anna. Or at least Ethan’s best imitation of her.
“Very clever, Kaille,” Darrow said.
“I don’t want to die,” Ethan said through the image of the girl. “And I don’t want to be tortured anymore.”
“I’m sure you don’t. You should have thought of that before you set yourself against me.”
“Is it too late for that partnership you spoke of earlier?”
Ethan barely listened to the man’s response. He concentrated instead on maintaining the illusion spell while at the same time casting again. Ambure ex cruore evocatum! Scald, conjured from blood! It had worked once; Darrow told him as much. Perhaps it would work a second time.
Ethan felt a change in the pulse of his conjuring, and knew that Darrow had, too. He had hoped that by masking the power with his illusion spell, he would catch the man off guard. And since Darrow wouldn’t expect him to have access to blood, the spell should have been strong enough to break through whatever warding Darrow used.
For an instant, he thought that it would work. Darrow stiffened suddenly, and he growled through gritted teeth-he was obviously in agony.
And then he wasn’t. Ethan felt Darrow’s spell, too. It had to have been a warding, cast with nothing more than a thought, fueled by something other than blood. In the span of a single heartbeat, the rictus of pain vanished from Darrow’s face, leaving only an angry glare.
“Scalding again? Not very creative, are you?” He dragged the edge of Ethan’s knife across his hand. “Fine. Here’s an old favorite for you.”
It couldn’t have been any more painful if Darrow had taken a bayonet, plunged it through Ethan’s head, and pinned him thus to the tree. Ethan let out a wail that echoed across the surrounding fields and beat his fists against the tree trunk until he thought the bones in his hands would shatter again.
“Two spells at once,” he heard Darrow say. “You’re learning. A pity that you won’t live long enough to put your new skills to use. Your time is up.”
The agony ended. But immediately, Ethan felt a sudden odd tugging at his chest. It didn’t exactly hurt. But his heart had begun to labor; he couldn’t draw breath. A shadow darkened his sight; the firelight faded. He could barely keep his balance.
And he thought, This is what it’s like to be the source for a killing spell.